Don't Fall For That Trick: A Booke Cases Mystery

Part 4 of 4

I stopped in at Ernest T. Stubbs Record Shop. Found the row of Trick Henderson's CDs. Bought a copy of Feel The Luck and Other Tragedies, which included the song "Killer in Me."

In the car, tore off the plastic wrap and popped the disc into the player. Sat and listened. I pulled the liner notes out of the jewel box. The credits listed Trick Henderson as sole songwriter.

The song is about a man who plans to fake his death to get the attention of an unrequited love. But the plan goes horribly awry.

***

So I broke down and called our friend George. To be more exact, Detective George Chavez of the Nashville Metro Police Department, Homicide Division. Without a murder, there didn't seem any point asking him to come to the hospital in an official capacity. But as soon as he heard about Darla's accident, he was certainly going to come visit.

Meanwhile, I arranged a get-together of all the suspects. I discovered that if you tell folks the police want to see them right away, and you say it with enough conviction, and then you get off the phone before they start asking questions, they don't think to ask why a civilian made the call. Maybe curiosity gets the better of them.

Which is how we all ended up in Darla's room at the hospital. She was not happy. At all. "Thomas Morgan Booke!" (The full name is never a good sign.) "What have you done?"

I looked at the crowd sardined into the room, courtesy of the Nashville police (as far as they knew). Becky Henderson, Trick's sister; Mrs. Lila Henderson, Trick's and Becky's mother; Frieda Kroenig, Trick's ex-wife (and, if her story played out, soon to be ex-ex-wife); Wayne Manchester, Trick's manager; and Jack Turner, Trick's partner. And my little sleuth, Darla. In her hospital gown, wrist in a cast, leg in a cast, no makeup, hair mussed.

But it was her glare that made me nervous. "Um," I said tentatively, "I'm just doing what you said. Sweetheart."

"I never said to do this."

"Booke," Manchester growled, "you said the police wanted to see us."

"The police will be here any minute."

Darla said, "Police?"

I nodded. "Chavez is on the way."

"In here? Like this?" She glared at me.

What did she have to be mad about? She asked for him.

The angry buzz in the room had reached fever pitch by the time the man himself arrived, Chavez holding a bouquet and get-well card. I whistled for the room's attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to Detective George Chavez, Nashville Metro. Homicide Division."

Everyone pounced on him.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Why are the police involved?"

"Do you have any idea who I am?"

"What are you planning to do about all this?"

Chavez, all deer-in-the-headlights, stammered, "I don't know what you people are talking about." Then he saw me and grimaced. "But I'm getting an idea."

I pushed through and grabbed his arm. "Give us a minute, folks." Pulling him to the corner of the room, I tried to fill him in.

I didn't get far before Darla called out. "Thomas! Bring George over here!" We both recognized that tone of voice and sheepishly approached the hospital bed. She said, "This is not what I asked for at all."

"Sure it is," I ventured dangerously. "You wanted Chavez to round up the suspects and bring them here." Her face scrunched further, but I pressed on. "Because you wanted to, um"—treading carefully—"you know, point out the would-be murderer. Hon."